


Lonesome Tears In My Eyes

by smothermeinrelish



Category: John Lennon - Fandom, McLennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Baking, Domestic Fluff, Domestic McLennon, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Jealous Paul McCartney, Julia's Kitchen, Live at the BBC, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, McLennon Big Bang 2020, Mentions of Cynthia, One True Pairing, Sad John, Teddy McLennon, The Beatles - Freeform, What Could Have Been, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smothermeinrelish/pseuds/smothermeinrelish
Summary: The start of 1963 is the most thrilling of his life.  The Beatles have an album, a weekly radio broadcast on the BBC and money in their pockets.  The one thing John wants, he can't have.  Fate can twist cruel to those not deserving of the outcome.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	Lonesome Tears In My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2020 McLennon Big Bang!
> 
> You won't find a happy ending with this story because I imagine it being close to how things really went down during the start of 1963. Sweet memories of their budding relationship, and what could have been.
> 
> This one shot coincides with the artwork created by Paul McCharmley

It was supposed to remain the same, no disruptions from their usual interactions. Stolen kisses, a quick grope and nights with hushed, rushed knee-tremblers when the chance warranted itself. Of course he should have known that once he said, “I do,” the entire thing would blow up in his face.

The start of the new year was promising—an album, a radio program and actual money in their pockets from performing. Although it has gotten him by, now he could shake his fist at his aunt to declare, “See Mimi! I CAN make a living from the guitar!” He should have felt on top of the world. Instead, he felt like a failure. A big phony with everything a man was supposed to want in life—beautiful wife, baby on the way—but his heart ached. While following what he thought was the proverbial ‘dream’, he was losing everything that mattered.

He hadn’t been vocal about the new arrangement, but John could tell. The lack of afterglow when they had a good show, opting for clubbing with George and Ringo rather than staying behind to work on songs and be alone with him. Even lines he would interject into songs seemed a bit more melancholy than before. Try as he might, Paul was being the supportive friend, giving advice when needed:

“Better give Cyn a call before we go out for the night.”

“Alright, Christ, you nag like an old bint.” Shoving his shoulder playfully, John sat down on the bed to dial her from the black phone on the nightstand.

“Well, you should be more sensitive, given her condition,” Paul mumbled as he perched across from him, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket.

Looking through the smudges of his thick lenses, he was still struck with awe when he looked at the man. Cleaned up proper, Paul was gorgeous. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what he saw in John Lennon that kept him around. 

Running a rough palm through his mop top, he sighed heavily. God, he was shit at expressing his feelings.

“Nah, m’not in the mood to hear about ‘her condition’. C’mon, let’s get a drink.” He stood up, walking to the door where the bustle of commotion in the hall lured him from his guilt.

Later that night, he curled into himself on the single bed and listened to the sound of the headboard banging against the wall. The lucky bird was getting it good tonight. Ringo snored away in a drunken slumber, oblivious to the sexcapades dripping through the thin plaster. 

But not John…nearly able to picture his concentrated brow, teetering on the edge. Patiently moving his hips until she got hers first, always the considerate bastard.

He heard the familiar cry of Paul climaxing, the muffled breaths and praise, mechanically practiced a hundred times over. As he punched the deflated feather pillow under his weary head, the jealousy in his gut churned with too many pints. He closed his eyes tight, swallowing the retch that built in his throat. 

He fitfully tossed and turned the remainder of the night, no rest for the weary. He should be missing his wife back home, yet his body yearned for the person on the other side of the wall. Mere centimeters away, he might as well have been on the moon with the distance he felt between them.

****

Ringo and George were being daft. Crammed into their tiny dressing room at the BBC studios before they recorded the radio programme, they rummaged through a prop closet full of junk from productions past. 

“Ey Paulie, I look like your main gal Juliette Greco!” A snort of laughter as Ringo emerged with a dark wig of hair, jeweled fingers threading through the mop.

Peering up from a magazine, Paul eyed his idiot friends.

“It is her?! Miss Greco! Can I get your autograph?!” Paul was up quickly, playing into the little game his mates had going on and eventually throwing the long wig on his head to flirt around with anyone who would listen.

Unamused, John went back to the lyrics he’d been scribbling down in a notebook. Taking a peek at his friends messing about, he was struck by the uncanny femininity of Paul in the shoddy stage wig. His heart skipped a beat. If only things had gone that way and Paul was of the fairer sex. So many  _ only if’s _ flung through his mind before his reverie was interrupted by Brian.

“Boys, you’re on in five. Come now, they’re waiting.” 

They grabbed their instruments, shuffling out to the echoing cinder block hallway. Before he exited behind George, his elbow was gently tugged.

“Hold up, luv.” Paul’s voice was loud enough that this wouldn’t be a conversation for only the two of them.

“What is it?” Turning, he was tired of being ignored, and if it kept on he just wasn’t sure he could pretend that the tension between them was temporary. Ringo already had mentioned something the night before about a nagging wife, and he knew it wasn’t aimed at Cyn.

“Let’s write tonight,” Paul said, his grip kept firm in the crook of John’s elbow. “Georgie and Rings are going to a club, the flat will be quiet. What’d ya’ say?” 

It was the first initiation he’d seen in weeks—months even. It took John by surprise. His heart beat loud in his ears, but it wasn’t the usual pre-show jitters. 

With a clear of his throat so his words were not lost in the traffic, he responded, “It’s a date, Macca.” 

A grin flashed back at him, while the full cheeks brightened up a face that ignited the dark place he had been in for too long.

***

  
  


It had been a good radio show. They had played some of the older ones like in the Hamburg days, and for that John was glad. Over the host’s banter and fan mail requests, he and Paul had caught each other’s line of sight with the reassurance that it was all going to be okay—that whatever had been happening between them was only temporary. By the last song, John’s fingers had itched to touch him, starved of attention.

Having to keep his emotions in check, he remained aloof when the bustle of the flat grew chaotic. Neil, Mal and a few others hung around drinking scotch and cokes before finally the majority left to head out to a new club that was expecting the very important company of a few ‘Beatles’ and their entourage.

Paul had ducked away to one of the rooms complaining of having a dicky stomach to avoid groans of disapproval from the rest of the group. Smart lad. John in turn had been given bucketloads of shit, the lads teasing him for going soft now that he was soon to be a father. Christ, if they only knew half of what his real problem was.

Pouring himself a scotch, he loosened his tie and plopped on the settee. Ash burning from the cigarettes was still left in the tray. He waited for Paul to emerge, but more minutes of silence made him wonder if perhaps he really was ill.

He lay down on the short sofa, head propped on the armrest and heavy eyes closing. All too soon he was back in the front room of Julia’s council house....

_ A rare sunny afternoon where they smoked cigarettes, shuffled playing cards and listened to a Screamin’ Jay Hawkins record on repeat while Julia baked shortbread in the kitchen for Jackie’s upcoming birthday. The smell had been heavenly, warm and enveloping, while the two of them laughed and joked. _

_ His mother had peeked her head into the front room and asked him and Paul to finish up the final batch and put it in the oven while she ran to the shops. Rather than scoffing at the baking, Paul had rushed at the chance to help her out. Always the parent-pleaser, this was something John had to see. _

_ Rinsing his hands in the sink and tying on the dainty apron, Paul had dove right into the task. Rolling out the dough, sprinkling the flour, pressing into the pan. John had leisurely watched him, propped against the opposite counter and finishing his smoke.  _

_ “Quite the little baker you are, Macca?” He had reached into the mixing bowl and threw a pinch of flour at his baby face cheeks. _

_ Paul had raised his elbow to block the attack. “Get stuffed!”  _

_ “Best keep you around. I could use a housewife to bake me shortbread whenever I want.” Without hesitation, he had scooted up behind him, dusty hands reached around to cover Paul’s thin fingers in the dough. His chest had pressed against the slightly shorter figure of Paul. He had felt him shudder against him.  _

_ They had already kissed once, nothing more than a peck when they had been slightly drunk after a gig. Laughing in hysterics at Paul tripping on the curb, he had saved the lad from a face plant and was met with a grateful wet smack on his mouth. Paul probably hadn’t even realized the magnitude of that drunken kiss, but John had held onto it like a cherished gift.  _

_ Since the first day he met Paul, he had wanted more. More than just a friendship. He was seventeen, and the confusing thoughts were painful at times. Being with Paul was all he thought about, dreamed about. By the time he realized it wasn’t just his guitar skills he was attracted to, he could barely look at himself in the mirror without feeling ashamed. He kept the secret inside of him, never wanting Paul to see the real him. _

_ “Who says I’d marry you?” Not breaking away from the confines of John’s presence, Paul had leaned back into him. Smirking, he had looked fondly as Paul mindlessly sprinkled sugar over the pastry. He was so close to him now. The light smell of ivory soap whispered past his nose, familiar and comforting in all the days they spent together. _

_ “I’d be the best husband to you, Macca! Nick you every rock ‘n’ roll record you could imagine. I’m a catch, luv!” Feeling bold, he had kissed the flour spot on Paul's cheek sloppily, half joking. _

_ Paul had stilled in his movements. John had stepped back a little, waiting for a shove to stop the silly game of pretend. Instead, Paul had looked up at him, turning to focus on his playful gaze. John’s smile had faded when the tension of the moment felt like he was going to snap in two. _

_ Cupping his hand to John’s face, he had brought him down so his mouth hovered over softly before he pressed his lips harder. Tugging gently on John’s upper lip to open his mouth more, he could taste the granules of sugar on Paul’s tongue. Sweet and smoky through the warm breath exhaling. This kiss was more than a drunken mistake. _

_ Pulling away from the lingering tingle of lips, Paul had spoken genuinely, “I’d marry you, Johnny. You’ll be a good one to hold on to.” Smiling, Paul had craned his neck up again, placing a delicate kiss to his forehead. An act so domestically chaste, his heart had thudded in his ears. _

_ Paul’s eyes were stunning, swirling with greens and gold. John saw everything he wanted in life in that face.They had kissed with fervor and haste, the snogging session lasting far longer than the two paid attention to. Flour-dusted fingerprints decorated their black t-shirts, evidence of the words and actions that had transpired on the sunny afternoon in Julia’s kitchen. _

“Hey Johnny, wake up sleepyhead…” Paul’s soft voice stirred him from the dream he didn’t realize he was immersed in. It had felt so real in his mind, a past memory tumbling into his unconsciousness.

Stiffly sitting up, he dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, rubbing away the grogginess. “Was I out long?” he asked and squinted to focus on Paul plopping down at his feet on the now vacant spot of the settee.

“Not sure?” He shrugged, looking over at John, with his face flushed and hair slightly mussed.

“I kipped too. Wasn’t planning on it, just happened,” he muttered, yawning out the leftover sleep in his voice.

“Had the oddest dream….” He turned to look pensively at Paul. The curiosity in his eyes widened to hear more of what John had to say, but he didn’t speak of it further. Instead, he cut it off before he reminisced to Paul about the sappy moment between them years ago.

“Did you want to work on that song you’ve been messing with?” Paul smiled genuinely to him, the first time it felt like in weeks.

“Could go for a cuppa ‘fore we start, need to clear out this fog from me head.” 

Beginning to move, Paul stood up and followed him into the galley kitchen just off from the living area. Setting the kettle to boil, they gathered the ritualistic supplies as the water heated. Paul fussed in the vacant cabinets looking for something.

“No biscuits, damn.” Rifling a hand through his moptop, he turned round, pressing his back against the counter surface and resting his head on the empty cabinet before turning to John. “A bit of shortbread sounds nice ‘bout now,” he said, letting out a nonchalant sigh.

John dropped the metal teaspoon from his hand as it clattered onto the gas stove grates. Lump in his throat, he shut off the kettle that began to scream at the exact moment.

Reaching a hand over to still John’s shaky hand, Paul cautioned, “Easy, luv, don’t burn yourself!”

“What did you say?” he asked, eyes still focused on the echo of Paul’s comment that was eerily telepathic. He had known of instances in the past, when he and Paul would describe the same dream they would have together. Spending so much time in each other’s pockets, it seemed natural and no more than a coincidence when they’d laugh at the absurdity of it.

“I said….” Paul kept his fingers wrapped around John’s wrist, guiding him closer to him. Standing in front of him now, Paul cupped his face with his right hand, tilting him to look directly at him as he continued, “Shortbread would be divine.” 

The weight of his words tugged the strings in his ribcage, pulling him closer to Paul.

Pools of tears were welling in his eyes; he couldn’t help the sudden wave of emotion. He had been dreaming about that perfect day with Paul, what seemed a lifetime ago in Julia’s kitchen, and now Paul confessed to the same dream!

“Did you—” He cut himself off with a hitch in his breath. Paul bit on his lower lip, tears now evident in his eyes. “Did you have the same dream as me? We-we were at my mum’s…” 

He nodded in affirmation to John’s question.

“Yes. Yeah, Johnny, I did.” Before another word between them was spoken, Paul enveloped his arms around John protectively. Entwined in the embrace that had long eluded them, John let a sob rack through him while he rested his weary head on Paul’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Paulie, I’m so sorry for fucking this up.” Tightening his fingers into the creased fabric of Paul’s crumpled dress shirt, he tugged hard, as if the anger he had felt could pass through to the thin fabric between their bodies and become a garment they could discard with their heartache and pain.

“Shhhh, stop that now,” he soothed, kissing the maple brown tufts of John’s disheveled hair. “I should be telling you that. Been a right prick to you.” Paul squeezed him tighter, emitting another sob from both of them.

They stood in the kitchen, connected at all points they could be touching and listening only to the sounds of their breathing over the clamor of the city outside the window.

When John felt the strength to pull away, he was relieved to find Paul looking just as wrecked as he felt. “I never wanted it to be this way, you know that, right?” Taking a deep sniffle, he wiped his damp face with his shirtsleeve.

“Course I know, babe. You did right. Couldn't leave Cyn alone in this mess.” His eyes were tired and red from the tears he had shed. “She’s a lucky lass, she is. Got herself quite the catch with you.” Playfully tapping his curled fist to John’s chin, he laughed it off with the tremendous weight of melancholy. 

Another wave of sadness shivered through him. Forever it would have to be this way, the lovers that never could be. In his heart he would always be true to Paul; in public he would be the married Beatle with a beautiful wife and baby. 

They hugged again, this time a silent agreement to the fact that they could never be what they both ultimately wanted.

“You know I love you. Always have, always will,” Paul assured him with a crooked smile.

“And you know I’d marry you if I could. It’s always been you, no one compares, luv.” John held his face as he uttered his promise to Paul. With the softest kiss to his lips, they held each other tight, relishing in their promise to each other.

“I know, John, I know.”

  
  



End file.
